


Words

by mansikka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Needs to Use Actual Words, Fluff, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's never been very good at saying how he's feeling out loud. Neither is he that comfortable with admitting to liking things that don't fit the persona he's carefully carved for himself. But with Cas it's different, at least he's learning to be different. Like, for instance, daring to hint at maybe how he's possibly feeling. Through the use of poetry, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

Who’d have thought Dean Winchester was such a sap?

 

A self-learned sap at that, one that read, and read a lot, juggling several ebooks on his tablet that he flew through in the dark of night when he couldn't sleep, and the bright of morning waiting for Sam to get ready.

 

Dean was a reader. It wasn't the worst secret in the world.

 

Dean had, in recent years, discovered a love of poetry, and that was an emasculating secret if he’d ever had one. He could hear the disdain in his father’s long-dead voice every time he read a new one. Not, justifying this to himself, that he was writing the stuff, or into all that olde English nonsense like Shakespeare that he really didn't see the fuss about. But he loved Ginsberg’s[ Howl](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179381) , and Poe’s [ The Raven](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178713), and anything by Coleridge was good by him.  

 

As secrets went, an interest in poetry wasn't anything worth being secret about at all, really, but instilled behaviour will make the smallest of bumps feel like an erupting volcano.

 

Maybe that’s why poetry began the unfurling of his biggest secret.

 

When Cas had crash-landed into the bunker late one night, eyes bloodshot and spine stooped, Dean had guided him to the shower block and gently washed his face and hands. Aware they really weren't things that were necessary for Cas, Dean did them anyway because they were definitely things he needed to do to reassure himself Cas was okay. And perhaps to allow himself to touch Cas with the tenderness he’d never reveal without a damn good excuse.

 

Dean had then guided Cas to his bedroom and gestured for him to lay down on the bed, so that Dean could ‘keep an eye on him’. It wasn't the first time they had shared a bed, and, Dean hoped, it wouldn't be that last. Even if currently all they did was lay stiffly beside each other until Dean dozed off, drifting towards Cas in his sleep.

 

Settling down beside Dean, Cas had mumbled that he didn't really need to sleep, just to rest. At that, Dean had handed him his tablet, told him to find something to read, or watch, or do. He’d fully intended to chat with Cas until he fell asleep, because that had become his favourite way of falling asleep, but something on the tablet had gotten Cas’ attention.

 

A page was already open, and Dean’s heart fluttered for a moment when he remembered what he’d been reading before Cas had arrived. But this was Cas, he told himself, and calmed instantly; even if he found Dean’s reading material unusual, Cas would be nothing more than curious.

 

Dean watched as Cas read in silence, and when he’d finished, Cas said softly, “This is very rousing, Dean.”

 

Dean leaned over a little to check the page, and found it open on[ _Do not go gentle into that good night_](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night). “Uh. Yeah, I guess it is.”

 

Cas smiled then, looking fondly at Dean. “This poem speaks very much of you, Dean. Your tenacity to never give up. I enjoy the parallel very much.”

 

Dean ducked his head in embarrassment. “I just liked the words.”

 

“They are good words, Dean. Have you always had an interest in poetry?”

 

Dean thought about that. Perhaps his discovery of poetry had really only been a rediscovery. His memory took him back to his teens. He remembered complaining to Sam about having to spend yet another afternoon in another stuffy library so that Sam could look something up for his homework. Dean thought it pointless; he could tell by the way their Dad’s mood darkened and his eyes constantly shifted that they’d be moving on again soon. What was the point in doing homework when they’d probably be gone within days?

 

Sam insisted on doing the homework anyway. He had always been that kind of kid.

 

So Dean had trailed sullenly along the library aisles, running a finger along the spines of a hundred semi-dusty books he’d never be interested in reading. He’d slumped down at a table, far enough away from Sam to keep an eye on him and still feign indifference.

 

On the table before him was a small blue and white book of poetry. The pages were open and the book laid flat against the table as though it had been read at the point over and over.

 

 _“_ [ _If_ ](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175772) _you can keep your head when all about you_

_Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,_

_…”_

 

And Dean had instantly been hooked. This poem spoke to him in a fatherly way, a guide, a way to grow up to be a man that his dad, and Sam, could be proud of. Not that he’d dare say that out loud for fear of his father’s ridicule.

 

When they’d walked away from that library that day, though, Dean had stood a little taller, walked a little prouder.

 

Dean told an abridged version of this story to Cas, who’d nodded with understanding and that same fond smile on his face.

 

“Do you have a favourite, Dean?”

 

“Not really.” Dean cuffed the back of his neck, thinking a little, then saying, “I actually really like[ _Fire and ice_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173527) _._ ”

 

Cas looked expectantly at him. Dean cleared his throat, and in a halting, embarrassed breath recited:

 

_“Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

_From what I've tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favor fire._

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And would suffice.”_

 

When he finished, he felt the blush on his cheeks, and shrugged in an attempt to belittle his interest. “It’s short.”

 

“It’s beautiful,” Cas countered. “I think we both know enough about how this world can end for it to resonate.”

 

Dean’s eyes raised at that, surprised at Cas’ summation and nodding in agreement.

 

“Do you have any others that you like?” Cas asked, prodding at the tablet screen.

 

Dean smiled, shyly warming to the subject and taking the tablet back to type into the search engine bar. When the page he wanted had loaded, he handed it back to Cas.

 

“[ _Ode to a nightingale_ ](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173744)?” Cas asked for confirmation, and Dean could only nod.

 

Dean watched Cas read to himself for a moment, and then timidly asked, “Will you read it? Out loud”

 

Cas smiled, bemused. “Of course, Dean. If you’d like me to.”

 

With a nod, Dean leaned back on to his pillow and waited, holding his breath.

 

_“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains_

_My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,_

_…”_

 

Not even two lines in, Dean’s heart skipped a beat, and something about the timbre of Cas’ voice sent little shots of desire through his belly and down. He sank deeper back into the comfort of his mattress as he listened, breathing slow and steady.

 

_“...Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown_

_Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways._

_…”_

 

Dean sighed in contentment. Okay, so this was a thing he’d never even considered before. The sound of Cas’ voice on a day to day basis was attention-grabbing, that was certain. But one reading of poetry from Cas and Dean felt his bones turned to liquid.

 

_“...Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—_

_To thy high requiem become a sod._

_..”_

 

Idly Dean wondered if there was anything true behind the idea that angels could sing, and in turn if that meant Cas could sing. Given the way he spoke, Dean had a pretty good idea that Cas would have a beautiful rich singing voice.

 

_“...Was it a vision, or a waking dream?_

_Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?”_

 

When Cas finished the poem, Dean wanted to ask him to read it all over again.

 

He fell asleep replaying the moment over to himself, a smile on his face and the comfort of Cas resting by his side.

 

***

 

The next time Cas showed up, Dean and Sam had been in the middle of checking into a motel room. He spent the evening with them over beers at the neighbouring diner, and when Sam dozed off on his bed, Dean brought over his tablet to sit beside Cas on the short, squat couch. He squashed in beside him, tapped at the screen for a moment, then handed it over.

 

“I read this a few days ago,” Dean said shyly. “It kinda made me think of you. It’s called[ _The angel with the broken wing_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/239924).”

 

Cas huffed in amusement, a glint in his eyes, and answered, “My wings are perfectly intact, Dean.”

 

Dean smiled, and then to his surprise, Cas began to read;

 

_“I am the Angel with the Broken Wing,_

_The one large statue in this quiet room._

_The staff finds me too fierce, and so they shut_

_Faith’s ardor in this air-conditioned tomb._

_…”_

 

Cas finished the poem, still smiling. “I enjoyed that.”

 

“Me too,” Dean replied, sure it was entirely for different reasons.

 

***

 

Poetry recital became a thing between them. It was sporadic; there were usually more pressing matters to discuss when Cas visited; typically things of a more apocalyptic nature. But when things were calmer, when they had a moment to breathe, they added it to their routine with comfortable ease. Dean hoped that Cas enjoyed it at least half as much as he did.

 

Poetry is a very personal thing, meaning one thing to one person and interpreted entirely differently by another. Dean loved that; it meant he could hide behind his own words and feign them as nothing even though they ripped him deep when they really were something to him. Poetry let him express himself without ever truly revealing his true feelings. That is what he liked to tell himself.

 

So poetry became Dean’s little game. Whenever there was a stanza or even just a line that revealed something about himself, or reminded him of Cas, he’d show it to him, hoping and yet dreading that Cas should understand the truth behind what he was really thinking.

 

He’d started simple.

 

 _“_ [ _When you are old_ ](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172055) _and grey and full of sleep,_

_And nodding by the fire, take down this book,_

_And slowly read, and dream of the soft look_

_Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;_

_…”_

 

“It’s a classic, Cas. Everyone raves about Yeats, and this,” he tilted the tablet to emphasise, “Is read out at thousands of funerals.”

 

Cas pursed his lips in disagreement, but smiled nonetheless. “It doesn't sound like a eulogy to me, Dean. It is more like a promise to stay with someone until they die.”

 

“Exactly. You agree to stay with someone for all your life, and this is like a memoir to that.”

 

Cas made a non committal sound and took the tablet from Dean’s fingers, beginning to type. “I think[ _Funeral Blues_](http://www.npr.org/programs/death/readings/poetry/aude.html) is a more fitting eulogy, Dean.”

 

Dean moved to glance at the screen but was stopped in his tracks by Cas beginning to read the poem:

 

_“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,_

_Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,_

_Silence the pianos and with muffled drum_

_Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come._

_…”_

 

Dean listened, feeling his throat catch from the words read in the most beautiful voice he had ever known. He’d listen to Cas read forever if he could, then chastised himself immediately for thinking such a thing. When Cas finished, Dean huffed in defeat.

 

“Okay. Sure, that works too. But that’s just sad, Cas. That’s like saying your life is completely over.”

 

“Mourning feels like your life is completely over, Dean.” Cas reasoned, passing the tablet back.

 

“True,” was Dean’s first response, and he frowned, thinking. Then, “I'm sort of over the mourning thing I guess.”

 

Cas mirrored his frown. “How?”

 

“Well,” Dean began, consciously or unconsciously leaning toward Cas as he spoke, though there was already little space between them on the couch anyway, “As sad as I am when I lose people now, as much as it kills me. I guess I know there’s a heaven, right? My own personal heaven where I have every intention of visiting and annoying the hell out of just about everyone I care about.”

 

Cas smiled at that. “That is a very...positive outlook, Dean.”

 

“I try,” he laughed, then looked away for a moment. “Hey Cas,”

 

“Yes, Dean?”

 

“When I eventually… you know.” and he cast his eyes upward, then looked away. “I’ll see you, right? You know. If I don’t go to hell again,” and at that his face grew troubled. Dean jumped a little at the pressure of Cas’ hand on his arm and the strength behind his gaze.

 

“Dean. Nothing within my power will ever allow you to go back to hell. Be certain of that.”

 

Dean let out a breath of relief, but narrowed his eyes. “That wasn't an answer to my question, Cas.”

 

“You question if I would visit you in heaven. Your heaven.” Cas confirmed, sounding uncertain.

 

“Well, yeah.”

 

“It was a ridiculous question.” Cas emphasised, pressing on Dean’s arm firmly.

 

Dean’s raised eyebrow was all he could give in response.

 

Cas rolled his eyes. “Dean. Do you doubt for a moment that I would not?”

 

When Cas had left that evening, Dean lay in the dark feeling very much like that conversation meant there was a whole lot of forever in his future involving Cas. He slept soundly on that thought.

 

***

 

“I like this one,” Dean said, handing over[ _The Quiet Hour_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/240320) to Cas as they sat propped up on Dean’s bed in the bunker. Cas read, his face revealing nothing.

 

“Why do you like this one?”

 

“Here.” Dean pointed to the final stanza. “This,” he said, “I like this.”

 

_“I think perhaps then heaven opens_

_Like the unfolding of your hand in sleep—_

_Your cold white hand—to close again—_

_While I sit staring at the marble gate._

_…”_

 

“You like this?” Cas asked dubiously, checking Dean’s face for understanding.

 

“Well. Maybe not like. But I kind of relate.”

 

“Explain.”

 

Dean fumbled at an imaginary thread in his jeans, studying it intently. “This is kind of how I feel every time you return to heaven and I don’t hear from you for a while.”

 

Cas frowned, teeth biting down on his lower lip in a way that captured Dean’s entire attention.

 

“You feel...shut out?”

 

Dean dragged his eyes away from Cas’ lower lip. “Yeah, Cas. I don’t know what’s happening up there. No cell phone signal, remember? And you suck at keeping in touch,” he added, leaning into Cas’ side to take the edge off the truth he’d spoken.

 

Cas’ face took on a look of contrition, and from that moment on, he’d checked in regularly for no other reason than to say hello.

 

***

 

“This one makes me think of you, Dean.”

 

Cas had become familiar with the tablet and had no problem navigating around the various websites Dean had bookmarked for reading.

 

Dean was tired; it had been a gruelling hunt, and despite Cas being on hand to put both he and Sam back together, he was beyond weary. If it weren't for Cas appearing out of nowhere, he’d have happily been asleep by now.

 

Cas could see the defeat on Dean’s face, and drummed his fingers idly on the bed in thought. He had recently started to understand the art of cajoling smiles out of Dean; it lit up Cas’ face like all the lights of Christmas when he coaxed one out of him after a particularly bad day, and today was no exception. With deliberation and exaggeration, Cas cleared his throat, and solemnly said, “[ _Love after Love_ ](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-after-love/), by Derek Walcott.” He paused, watching Dean’s face and waiting. Sure enough, Dean’s face cracked into a smile and he rolled his eyes at Cas then tipped his chin towards the tablet.

 

Cas began. _“The time will come_

_when, with elation_

_you will greet yourself arriving_

_at your own door, in your own mirror_

_and each will smile at the other's welcome,_

_…”_

 

Dean’s eyes closed at the gentleness of Cas’ tone, letting it wash over him. He smiled at the words, taking every one in.

 

When Cas finished, Dean pretended to clap, and laughed, “You trying to tell me something, Cas?”

 

“Yes.” Cas nodded, affection in his voice.

 

“Go on,” Dean prompted, glancing over at the tablet again.

 

“It is my hope for you, Dean. That one day you might like yourself. Forgive yourself. See yourself how I see you.”

 

Cas kept Dean’s gaze, and Dean’s stomach flipped a little, but he didn't look away.

 

***

 

The affection between them had increased steadily over the months, more leaning, more looks, more time together.

 

Sometimes Dean just wanted to reach for Cas, or to actually use his own words to admit how he was feeling. Something always got in the way though, as it always did, and it infuriated him.

 

Words were Dean’s biggest challenge sometimes. They left him wanting and miserable and hopeless more than they did him any good. Cas had started to look at him searchingly, as though Dean would reveal whatever he was thinking if Cas stared long and hard at him enough.

 

Dean’s words refused to give in to either of them.

 

***

 

Dean had begun to believe his inability to say what he was thinking had taken its toll on Cas.

 

Cas, who had told him vague outlines of the problems he faced in heaven, had been away longer and longer, checking in for nothing but a few minutes here and there and looking more battle scarred each time.

 

Dean blamed it entirely on himself. Especially when Cas stared at him longer and longer as though willing him to speak.

 

After their first evening home at the bunker in weeks, Dean and Sam had eaten a huge home cooked meal and both gone to their perspective rooms early for well-needed solace.

 

Dean had taken a bottle of whiskey with him for company though, forcing down the hopes he held for Cas finally appearing.

 

Dean read through several of his favourite poems; he’d built up quite a bookmarked collection and turned to favourites for comfort. He knew so many of them off by heart but he liked to have them there on the page in front of him.

 

A third of the bottle in, and Dean read[ _You and I_](http://allpoetry.com/poem/8556683-You-And-I-by-Henry-Alford) , focussing on the line “ _...My ear is tired waiting for your call..._ ”, and sarcastically adding a _Cas_ at the end of it. Cas hadn't been back for almost two weeks now, and Dean hated that. With whiskey as his comforter, Dean got stuck on the words “ _...We ought to be together - you and I…_ ”. He mumbled them to himself over and over more drunkenly as the evening progressed.

 

Cas had once confessed to Dean that he could sometimes hear what he’d referred to as Dean’s drunk praying. Alcohol made him brave. Or stupid.

 

He clocked the now almost empty bottle and squinted his eyes to make out the time on his phone, huffing into the darkness of the room. His fumbled for the lamp beside the bed, and after a few misses and almost spills, the room was bathed in light.

 

“Alright, Cas, let’s see if this one gets your feathery ass down here.” Dean cleared his throat in one decidedly thick cough, stabbed at his tablet to find the page he was looking for, and then:

 

_“That kiss I failed to give you._

_How can you forgive me?_

[ _The kiss_ ](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/248720) _I would have spent on you is still_

_There, within me. It will probably die there._

_But it will be the last of me to die.”_

 

Cas had arrived within minutes of the poem finishing, finding Dean slumped back on the bed like a starfish.

 

“Cas!” Dean had shouted, delighted. “You heard me!”

 

Cas nodded, hesitation in his voice. “I heard you, Dean. Loudly and not very clearly.” His eyes sought out the bottle and when he saw its lack of contents he sighed.

 

“Where’ve you been?” Dean asked, petulance evident in his tone.

 

“There have been...complications, Dean.”

 

Dean sat up, crossing his arms across his chest as though sulking. “You liked my poems, Cas?”

 

“I have no objection to them,” he responded carefully, staring at Dean as though he were a puzzle he was trying to figure out.

 

“‘No objection?’” Dean repeated, drunken incredulity evident. “That’s all you have to say?”

 

“I… did not know what you were telling me, Dean. And I am confused.”

 

“What’s there to be confused about?” Dean waved a hand in Cas’ general direction. “You know.”

 

“I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know at all. You make no sense. ‘ _That kiss I failed to give you. How can you forgive me?_ ’ When did that happen? What are you trying to tell me, Dean?” Cas’ voice was broken, but somehow hopeful, pleading with Dean to help him understand.

 

Dean’s alcohol-fuelled confidence had rapidly morphed into tying his tongue. “You’re smart.” he mumbled, “You get it.”

 

The look on Cas’ face then was nothing but exasperation. “No, Dean, I don’t ‘get it’. If you have something you wish to say to me, perhaps you should be telling me when you’re not inebriated.”

 

Dean could have sworn there was hurt in Cas’ voice then but before he had the chance to ask why, Cas disappeared again.

 

Dean groaned to himself and fell back on the bed.

 

***

 

Cas hadn't reappeared for several weeks after that. When he had, he was cautious, only ever visiting when in the presence of Sam as though he were some sort of shield, or deflector.

 

He avoided Dean’s eyes entirely.

 

Dean’s heart ached. He missed the closeness they’d been developing, and whatever the something they were working towards. He missed Cas. And he was more than a little confused by Cas’ apparent cold shoulder since his last visit.

 

Dean knew full well he could be a dick sometimes. He’d push people away just to avoid being hurt, overcompensate with his actions to cover up words. But he’d been careful not to do that with Cas lately. He’d not pulled away from Cas when they’d ‘accidentally’ leaned into each other’s space in public. He’d let his hand linger long and soft on Cas’ shoulder, or arm, or back. He’d held his gaze, capturing it in a smile, not even flinching when Sam coughed politely to get his attention.

 

He was trying. And yes, perhaps the Dean Winchester approach to trying was minimalistic to say the least, but Cas would know. Cas would see that.

 

Surely Cas would see that?

 

A horrible thought occurred to Dean then. What if Cas could see exactly what was going on in Dean’s mind, and didn't actually want any of it? What if he was staying away because this was the politest form of rejection he knew?

 

Dean felt sick.

 

Sleep did not come easy then for Dean. Whilst Sam collapsed into the motel bed beside him and passed out within seconds, Dean lay prone, staring into the dark of the room playing his actions on repeat, sadness and wistfulness swallowing him whole. He’d thought, he’d been so sure, that there was some feeling there from Cas. Maybe not on the same scale, or with the level of understanding about what those feelings might be. But something.

 

Dean hadn't felt so lonely in so long.

 

***

 

Another night at another motel, on the road once more. Dean had become sullen. Sam tried to snap him out of it with the slapstick movies Dean laughed out loud to playing on his laptop and a constant stream of beer and snacks. It worked, to some extent, but the joy that had begun to creep into Dean’s features over the past few months had gone.

 

Sam knew there was something he was missing and that was tied to a certain missing angel. But getting Dean to talk about anything resembling emotion was pointless, so all he could do was watch from the sidelines, hoping things would be resolved soon.

 

Dean had left the bar early, leaving Sam chatting contentedly with a few of the locals. Dean was tired, his legs felt like lead, and all he wanted was the oblivion of sleep.

 

He lay down on the bed fully clothed, frowning into the dark at the crumpling sound beneath him.

 

Wriggling on the bed his hand fell on something papery, and he reached out for the light switch.

 

In his hand was an envelope. He pulled out two sheets of thick paper, and an unfamiliar hand had written

 

_Dean_

_I am as poor at words as you appear to be._

_Read this. It makes me think of you._

_I hope you can understanding my thinking._

_And I hope that I am not wrong._

 

Dean’s heart thumped noisily as his fingers fumbled for the second sheet of paper and unfolded it.

 

 _“When_ [ _your hands_](http://allpoetry.com/Your-Hands) _leap_

_towards mine, love,_

_what do they bring me in flight?_

_Why did they stop_

_at my lips, so suddenly,_

_why do I know them,_

_as if once before,_

_I have touched them,_

_as if, before being,_

_they travelled_

_my forehead, my waist?_

_…”_

 

Dean felt hope bloom in his chest, a surge of happiness that hammered harder as he read on.

 

The poem ended with:

_“...until both your hands_

_closed on my chest,_

_like a pair of wings_

_ending their flight.”_

 

Dean smiled into the room. _Not wrong, Cas_ , he thought. _Way not wrong_.

 

***

 

There’d been a poem Dean had come across a few weeks ago that seemed to have been written just for him. Almost every line related, and if he and Cas were ever going to get past this saying/not saying thing they were doing, it would be the most perfect of perfect responses. If only he could remember what it was called.

 

He searched random words that he thought had been in the poem, half-guessed titles and came up nothing. He’d searched through his history but there were so many links he’d tired of ever finding it.

 

Finally, he’d found it, and he read it over and over to himself to make sure.

 

So what now?

 

He’d waited until the following evening, rehearsing a hundred words, chastising himself for his fears, and clenching and unclenching his fists a thousand times.

 

Cas said he’d heard his prayers, and if he was ever going to get Cas’ attention then perhaps a prayer was the only thing he could try.

 

Dean took a gulp of coffee, wincing as it scalded his tongue, and then let out a slow, steadying breath.

 

“Cas,” he prayed, and oh how did he pray. “Cas please.[ _Please hear what I’m not saying_](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/please-hear-what-i-m-not-saying/).”

 

_“Don't be fooled by me._

_Don't be fooled by the face I wear_

_for I wear a mask,_

_a thousand masks,_

_masks that I'm afraid to take off,_

_and none of them is me._

_…”_

 

Dean read as steadily as he could, unable to keep all of the tremors from his voice, but emphasising lines that he thought spoke for him best.

 

_“...I give you the impression that I'm secure,_

_that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well_

_as without,_

_that confidence is my name and coolness my game,_

_that the water's calm and I'm in command_

_and that I need no one,_

_but don't believe me._

_…”_

 

_“...Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness._

_But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it._

_I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed._

_That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,_

_a nonchalant sophisticated facade,_

_to help me pretend,_

_to shield me from the glance that knows._

_…”_

 

_“...But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope,_

_and I know it._

_That is, if it's followed by acceptance,_

_if it's followed by love._

_It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself,_

_from my own self-built prison walls,_

_from the barriers I so painstakingly erect._

_It's the only thing that will assure me_

_of what I can't assure myself,_

_that I'm really worth something._

_But I don't tell you this. I don't dare to, I'm afraid to._

_I'm afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,_

_will not be followed by love._

_I'm afraid you'll think less of me,_

_that you'll laugh, and your laugh would kill me._

_I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing_

_and that you will see this and reject me._

_…”_

 

_“...So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks,_

_and my life becomes a front._

_I tell you everything that's really nothing,_

_and nothing of what's everything,_

_of what's crying within me._

_…”_

 

_“...I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me_

_but you've got to help me._

_You've got to hold out your hand_

_even when that's the last thing I seem to want._

_Only you can wipe away from my eyes_

_the blank stare of the breathing dead._

_Only you can call me into aliveness._

_…”_

 

_“...I want you to know how important you are to me,_

_…”_

 

_“...You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,_

_you alone can remove my mask,_

_you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic,_

_from my lonely prison,_

_if you choose to._

_Please choose to._

_…”_

 

_“...I fight against the very thing I cry out for._

_But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls_

_and in this lies my hope._

_Please try to beat down those walls_

_…”_

 

By the time Dean finished the poem, his throat was raw, and he choked back the lump there to try to calm himself.

 

Cas landed at the foot of the bed, breathless and flush-cheeked, mouth open wide.

 

They stared at each other then, trapped in one another’s gaze and both too stunned, or scared, to move.

 

Finally, Cas dropped to his knees on the edge of the bed. He shrugged out of his trench coat and awkwardly kicked off his shoes, before shuffling towards Dean, resting his hands on his own thighs.

 

Dean swung his legs up onto the bed, turning and crossing them so that he could face Cas.

 

“Dean. Did you mean it?”

 

“All of it, Cas. Every last word.”

 

The adoration in Cas’ face then was almost too much, but when Cas leaned in, pressed Dean back into the bed and kissed him hard, Dean could do nothing but bathe in it.

 

***

 

“[ _The day is done_ ](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175166) ,” Dean began, _“and the darkness_

_Falls from the wings of Night,_

_As a feather is wafted downward_

_From an eagle in his flight._

_…”_

 

Cas nuzzled into his chest, a contented sigh the only interruption he made.

Dean continued, “... _Come, read to me some poem,_

_Some simple and heartfelt lay,_

_That shall soothe this restless feeling,_

_And banish the thoughts of day._

_…”_

 

Cas tucked his head into Dean’s neck, and Dean could feel him smiling against him. And as he carried on reading, Cas shifted, silent as he could, until he was straddled across Dean’s lap.

 

_“...Then read from the treasured volume_

_The poem of thy choice,_

_And lend to the rhyme of the poet_

_The beauty of thy voice._

_…”_

 

Cas beamed at Dean has he spoke those words, staring at him with such affection that it made Dean’s heart pound. He rushed out the final stanza and on the final word, Cas’ lips were on his, patting at Dean’s arm until he dropped the tablet down on Cas’ side of the bed.

 

***

 

“Neruda.”

 

Dean scoffed, but grinned anyway. “Neruda? He’s your favourite poet? Come on, Cas. Everyone loves Neruda, he’s so popular he’s almost a cliché.[ _One hundred love sonnets_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179257)? Bit extreme, don’t you think?”

 

Cas huffed and shook his head. “He’s so popular because he is so good,” he insisted, grabbing the tablet from Dean’s hands and searching for a particular poem.

 

“Shall I demonstrate?” Cas asked haughtily and rolled so that he was on top of Dean, resting the tablet on his chest.

 

Dean stretched leisurely beneath him, hand softly stroking down his back before resting on his hips. “Please do,” he smirked leaning up to steal a kiss.

 

Cas feigned annoyance but lasted all of a second. He returned the kiss, and began.

 

_“I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,_

_or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:_

_I love you as one loves certain obscure things,_

_secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom but carries_

_the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,_

_and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose_

_from the earth lives dimly in my body._

_…”_

 

Dean shifted then, eyes bright and sheer happiness evident on his face.

 

Cas paused only momentarily, but when he started up again, Dean whispered along with him, never taking his eyes from Cas’ face.

 

_“...I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,_

_I love you directly without problems or pride:_

_I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,_

_except in this form in which I am not nor are you,_

_so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,_

_so close that your eyes close with my dreams.”_

 


End file.
